


A Study in Brevity

by withaflourish



Series: The Ficlet Anthologies [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Crack, Dark, Dark Character, Dark!Molly, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Foreign Language, Gen, Genderswap, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Horror, Humor, M/M, MolMorMor, Mythology - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Substance Abuse, Wingfic, Winglock, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 67
Words: 12,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withaflourish/pseuds/withaflourish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Sherlock ficlets. Ranging from three sentences to five and spanning genres, pairings, and even alternate universes, these short vignettes offer a peek into the lives of the occupants of 221B and the people around them. All originally posted on my Tumblr, this will continue to update as I continue to fill more Sherlock prompts. Ratings, genres, and warnings (if applicable) will be posted at the beginning of each drabble, whereas prompts and pairings will be posted in the chapter title. Newest update: Dark!Molly, Molly is Moriarty's boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark!Molly/Moriarty: Carnival

Rating: T

Genre: Dark romance

Warnings: Mild violence

A giggle in the darkness and another thump. Moriarty turned the corner to find a fresh corpse, endlessly reflected in the hall of mirrors in front of him, its reflection obscured only by the bloody heart scrawled on the mirror itself: “Come find me love! xoxo Molly”. He chuckled to himself before leaping over the body and running towards the nearest passage; the game was on, and Jim Moriarty did not play to lose.


	2. Molly/Moriarty: First meeting

Rating: K

Genre: General

“Hi, I’m Molly Hooper!” the woman in the lab coat chirped, peering at Jim with what were probably the most insipid, most lacklustre, most utterly uninteresting eyes Jim had ever seen.  _Perfect_.

“I’m Jim; I’m from IT.”


	3. Mrs. Hudson: Her reaction to Reichenbach

Rating: G

Genre: Angst

Warning: character death

Mrs Hudson refused to believe that Sherlock Holmes was dead. Death was for the poor mortals caught in the tedious machinery of life, not for the vibrant spirit that swooped into her life one day with a billowing coat and a certificate of death held in one gloved hand. If anyone could cheat death, Sherlock Holmes could, so Mrs Hudson waited. The hours spent in chemotherapy were spent thinking about the meal she would cook for him when he returned, because that boy was far too skinny for his own good. When she had to be moved to the hospital because she could no longer walk around her flat, she worried about where she would put Sherlock’s skull in the hospital (he knew she had it, it would do her no good to leave it behind now). The IV drips bothered her only because they limited how quickly she could knit Sherlock a scarf, for his old one was far too tattered to continue being worn. Whenever the nurses brought her tea, she always asked for an extra cup, because Sherlock had never once visited her without staying for tea. As people came to visit her in the hospital, leaving flowers and gifts and cards, she waited for the offended mayhem that would announce the arrival of her dear consulting detective. She waited, and waited, and waited, until her body (what did Sherlock call it? Oh yes, nothing but transport. Silly transport) finally gave out. And as the nurses were bundling the body of Mrs. Clarisse Hudson, aged 76, into the morgue and pouring out the cold tea on her bedside table and disposing of the skull hidden under her hospital bed, a certain Sherlock Holmes was knocking on the door of 221B Baker Street. 


	4. Mycroft/Sally: First meeting

Rating: G

Genre: General with a hint of fluff

Sally prided herself on her level head, her analytical skills, her ability to look past the smoke and mirrors of showy deductions and see the  _freak_ beneath - so why was it that, when the man with the umbrella, nonchalantly volunteered the answer to the case she’d been working on for  _weeks_ ,  _between sips of his tea_ no less, she was more intrigued than annoyed?


	5. Moriarty/Moran: Reichenbach

Rating: T

Genre: Angst

Warning: character death

Five blocks too far and ten storeys too high, Sebastian Moran watched powerlessly as Moriarty raised the gun towards his mouth and — Sebastian re-sighted the sniper and focused on the doctor caught between the crosshairs; the show must go on. 


	6. Mycroft/Moriarty: Interrogation

Rating: G

Genre: General, but a touch dark

“I know you’re offering to let me out and all,” Moriarty said with a smirk as he watched the elder Holmes brother continue to pace back and forth, “but I’d much rather stay here and…  _enjoy_  the view.”


	7. Sherlock/Moriarty: Prison

Rating: G

Genre: General, but a touch dark

“I was so lonely in my cell,” Moriarty said in a sing-song voice as he opened the door to Sherlock’s cell, “so I decided to visit; after all, think of all the fun we could have together!”


	8. Molly/Moriarty: Taking advantage of Molly

Rating: G

Genre: Dark

“Molly, Molly, Molly,” he whispered, grazing his teeth along her neck, enjoying the taste of her sweat and tears and more-than-a-hint of fear, “I need you to do a teensy weensy favour for me.”


	9. Mycroft/Lestrade: Fluff

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff

When he was a little boy, Greg Lestrade had envisioned living in a house with a white picket fence, waving goodbye to his wife and five children as he drove to the Yard — and yet, he thought as he sat in bed with an arch, overprotective, and yet utterly lovable “minor government official,” his life had turned out so much better.


	10. Dark!Molly/Moriarty: Medieval AU

Rating: T

Genre: Dark romance

“And what does my queen desire?” Jim purred, his lips brushing lightly against the back of the hand of the monarch seated before him in the gilded throne. Molly chuckled darkly as she tossed an apple back and forth in her hands; suddenly, she tossed it in the air, a sharp flick of her wrist sending a throwing dagger hurtling after the fruit and pinning it to the far wall. “My dear huntsman,” she crooned, “bring me back the consulting detective’s heart.”


	11. Sherlock/John: Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for socialsaltysailors.

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff

John sometimes wonders what it would take for a miracle. Karmic repentance? He’s tried that. A deal with the devil? He’s tried that too. As it turns out, all it takes for a miracle is three years and an absolute fucking bastard of a (former) flatmate.

Sherlock knows what it would take for a miracle, and he knows that it’s something neither heaven nor hell can help him with. All Sherlock wants, no, _needs_ is for his stubborn, headstrong, fundamentally _good_ flatmate to forgive him.

They both get their miracle. And a snog for good measure.


	12. Mycroft/Sally: Royalty AU

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff

He had brought Captain Donovan into the palace guard force around three years ago, and her presence was definitely quite palpable. She had a tongue as sharp as her sword, and she wasn’t afraid to use it on anyone, from the footman who had sneered at the colour of her skin to the prince who had sneered at, well,  _her_. Of course, her function was to keep Prince Sherlock in check, but if Mycroft paid special attention to her — well, a king did have to keep a close eye on his subjects, right?


	13. Moriarty/Moran: Post-Reichenbach daydreams

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff

Sebastian closed his eyes, and he could almost see Jim sprawled out on the couch, popping grapes into his mouth as he fiddled with his phone. Sebastian would sit down next to him, Jim’s legs instantly moving to better pin Sebastian down to the couch, and the assassin would begin to clean his rifle, piece by piece. The only blood shed would that of the others stupid enough to get in Jim’s way, and everything would just be business as usual.


	14. Dark!Molly/Moriarty: "What will we do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my lovely beta Shanzay (cosmostrekker).

Rating: K+

Genre: Dark romance

“Jim,” Molly says as she sits on a slab in the morgue, legs swinging back and forth, “what will we do about our favourite army doctor?” He recognizes that tone of voice instantly – it’s the same voice that whispered the then-foreign names of chemicals into his ear when they were both twelve and being bullied by Carl Powers, it’s the same voice that spoke of Jewish fairy tales and the real-life bogeyman behind them, it’s the same voice Molly uses whenever she has a plan. “What do you propose, my dear?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he leans back and waits for her answer.


	15. John/Lestrade: "It's not easy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Yuu (jam-scarves-and-crack).

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff

It’s not easy, competing against a ghost. Greg can list all the times that John has sat, stone-silent, staring at his phone, waiting for a message that will never appear. But Greg can also list all the times he’s made John laugh, made John beam with triumph or pride or just plain glee, made John swoop in for a delighted and warm and oh so tender kiss – and really, that’s enough for Greg.


	16. Sherlock/John: Dinner with Irene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mary (knowledgeiscake).

Rating: T

Genre: Humour

It’s six years after The Fall, four years after The Return, and three years after The Reveal, and John sips at his tea slowly, leaning against his flatmate-turned-lover and basking in the rare moment of calm. He looks at the empty chair across from him and frowns slightly; you’d think that, after so many invitations to dinner, she would at least be on time for the annual dinner they _finally_ agreed to. Suddenly, Sherlock nudges him and points to the restaurant’s bar with an amused smirk; well, it seems like they have finally found the lady of the evening – now, if they could just figure out a way to detach her from the blonde currently snogging her senseless? John is starting to get a little bit peckish.


	17. Mycroft/Sally: Sleep

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff

Sally woke up slowly, cocooned in plush Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than she made in a month. Through the soft light gently filtering through the Venetian blinds, she saw Mycroft beside her, still asleep for once. Cradled by the dappled pattern of morning sunshine, he looked innocent and all too vulnerable, and Sally fiercely swore to herself that – as completely impractical (and perhaps even absurd) as it was – she would always do her utmost to ensure that Mycroft Holmes was never hurt. 


	18. Irene/Anthea: First meeting

Rating: G

Genre: General

“I’ve heard of you,” Irene said, eyes appraising the brunette beside her, “Anthea, they call you — ‘Personal Assistant Extraordinaire.’ They say that your lips are always sealed, that no one can get to you; I think I could crack that delicious exterior of yours, though.”

Anthea merely smiled, eyes still glued to her Blackberry. “I’d like to see you try, Ms Adler.”


	19. Molly/Irene: Trust

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

Molly lay spread-eagled on the bed, flexing her wrists gently against the handcuffs encircling them and feeling the soft slide of a silk blindfold being tied around her eyes. “Hush, darling,” Irene whispered in Molly’s ear, “do you trust me?” Molly thought of her dominatrix, her witty, vivacious, mischievous girlfriend whose sharp tongue always seemed to become just a fraction softer when Molly was around, and Molly whispered, “Always.”


	20. Dark!Molly/Moriarty: Plotting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Tash (hookedonafeeling89).

Rating: K+

Genre: Touch angsty, almost fluffy?

They plot together in the middle of the night, fingers tracing complicated webs of crimes and connections among their sheets that almost sparkle in the faint moonlight. They whisper and they plan until one day, a gunshot on the roof of St Bart’s stops it all. And that’s how Molly learns that half a spider cannot spin any web at all. 


	21. Sherlock/John: Tumblr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Rebecca (shegoestothemovies).

Rating: G

Genre: Humour

“Admit it Sherlock,” John says with a wicked grin as he turns on his bar stool to better face the detective.

“Admit what?” Sherlock mutters as he nurses his beer and discretely checks his phone yet again, being very careful to hide the screen from John’s knowing eyes.

“You’re addicted to Tumblr, aren’t you?”


	22. John 'enjoying' himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Rosalia (anarmydoctor) who bemoaned the lack of proper John/John (ie. John enjoying himself) fics out there. Please note the rating (and yes, this is as close as I will ever get to writing proper smut).

Rating: M

Genre: Smut with hints of angst

John’s alone in his bed, and all he can feel is the heavy, warm weight of his cock in his left hand and the hardness of his nipples in his right and every sensation sweeps through his body and grounds him, pushing him further and further into the _now_ , the _here_ , the _present_. And for a moment, John forgets about the bloodstains on the pavement and the tears that he refuses to shed and the weight of a world that won’t stop prodding. Just for one moment – one small, precious moment – John is no longer surrounded by death or memories or anything other than his warm, solid, _alive_ body – and it’s wonderful. 


	23. Dark!Molly/Moriarty: First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Katie (punifa).

Rating: T

Genre: Dark romance

“I could have you shot for this, you know,” Jim says as he saunters into his flat. The brunette reclines further back into the couch as she throws a scalpel at the corpse of his bodyguard, the metal instrument embedding itself deep into the flesh with a hard “thunk” as it joins the five others already scattered around the body. “You could,” she says with a giggle, “but where’s the fun in that? Oh,” her eyes go wide in mock surprise, “how rude of me; you don’t know who I am, do you? The name’s Molly Hooper.”


	24. Sherlock & John: Boston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Jillian (mystolenthunder).

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff, general

“You like lobster,” Sherlock announces matter-of-factly one night as John’s tucking into a plate of pasta at Angelo’s. John pauses mid-chew and swallows slowly, before asking cautiously, “Yeah… what of it?” “Good;” Sherlock says, typing out a quick message on his phone, “I’ve accepted a case in America and you’re coming with me.” “Wait, what?” John sputters, “I still have work at the surgery, and- ” “And you’re skipping it to fly with me to Boston, Massachusetts, where they’ll have the freshest _homaridae_ you’ve ever tasted” Sherlock interrupts with a smirk, and that, as they say, is that. 


	25. Mycroft/Sally: Paperwork

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff, humour

Sergeant Sally Donovan  _hated_  paperwork. The exact reasons why were far too numerous and complex to get into, but suffice to say, if there was ever a sheet that needed filling out, it was more likely to be tossed at the heads of either Lestrade or Anderson (albeit gently — although Sally never explicitly stated her thanks, she was grateful all the same). So when Sally walked into Mycroft’s office one day and saw him hunched over some forms, she had to remind herself that she  _hated_  paperwork. She certainly didn’t appreciate how his position allowed her to get a nice view of the smooth curve of his neck, or how his elegant fingers tapped against his chin, or how he would almost caress a piece of paper before flipping it over — no, Sally Donovan refused to appreciate any of that, because that would mean admitting that paperwork had its benefits, and that was just unacceptable.


	26. Sherlock discovers John's JRR Tolkien obsession

Rating: G

Genre: Crack

“John,” Sherlock says as he opens the lid of a covered with a layer of thick dust and a childish scrawl saying ’Do Not Open (and that means you, Harry!)’, “why do you have all these books here? And are these- drawings? What about these plastic things over here? Fake ears? Oh, how interesting! Why haven’t I seen these earlier?”

John wonders if it’s possible to die from humiliation; he figures it must be, because if this torture doesn’t end soon, he’s going to throw himself off a building.


	27. John Watson's three-sentence blog entry

Rating: G

Genre: Angst

Sorry I haven’t been updating lately . Well, no, scratch that; there are many things I’m sorry for, but this isn’t one of them. After all, nothing happens to me – at least, not anymore. 

 


	28. Mycroft/Sally: Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Lily (lillianabigailsturm).

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff

Sally Donovan was never one for planning ahead. And sure, there were times when some forethought would have helped her (an affair with a certain forensic scientist springs to mind), but Sally has faith in her spontaneity. And when Mycroft's plans get a bit too complex for her tastes? Well, Sally's teaching him, slowly but surely (and with the help of a few choice pieces of lingerie), just how much fun _not_ planning can be. 


	29. Molly Hooper as Moran

Rating: K+

Genre: Humour, dark

Full prompt: Molly Hooper - badass extraordinaire. 

“Jim dearest,” Molly crooned into the Bluetooth headset she was wearing, “I’m getting bored. And my finger’s getting itchy.”

She could hear Jim typing his last words to Shan, before his voice lilted right in her ear, “She’s all yours.”

Jim heard the satisfying  _pow_  of the rifle being fired, followed by a fluttering and a  _tweet_. He frowned. “Molly, what did I tell you about playing Angry Birds while you’re working?”

“Give me an actual challenging target and I’ll stop,” she retorted. “Two buildings away in a 4 kilometre-per-hour crosswind is child’s play, and you know that.”

The consulting criminal chuckled darkly, “Don’t worry, my darling, our next target will be much more…  _lively_.”


	30. Fem!lock/John: The morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Rosalia (anarmydoctor).

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

John trudged down the stairs wearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, when he caught a glimpse of his flatmate in the kitchen. Wavy hair tied back into two pigtails, Sherlock sat in her customary chair, alternating between looking in her microscope and jotting brief notes down in her elegant scrawl in the notebook beside her. All in all, a perfectly normal scene – except for the fact that draped loosely over Sherlock’s statuesque frame was a blue-and-black striped jumper that was very,  _very_ familiar to John. In fact, John had been quite sure that he had been wearing that exact jumper not even twelve hours ago, before various  _other_  events had left him rather… indisposed (memories flashed through his mind of pale skin pressed against his and red lips swollen with kisses and black curls that caressed every bare inch of his body). Fast forward to the morning after, and John Watson’s jumper was currently being worn, too-long sleeves and all, by his flatmate-turned-friend-turned-lover and  _damn_  did it look good on her. Not that John needed to tell Sherlock that; he was quite sure that he’d praised her body  _quite_  vocally last night (and thank God Mrs Hudson hadn’t been home last night).  As it was, John could help himself from asking, “Is there a reason you’re wearing my jumper?”

 “I couldn’t find my shirt in your room after… last night,” Sherlock muttered, refusing to make eye contact as her slim fingers adjusted the dial on the microscope (and John resolutely refused to think about what those  _very_  nimble fingers had been doing last night).

“And you didn’t go down to your room to get another one because…?”

“Your shirt was more conveniently located, therefore it was the more logical solution.”

“Right, perfectly logical. No sentiment involved whatsoever,” John said dryly with a small smirk.

“Of course not,” Sherlock huffed, and if there was a slight pink tinge to those delicate cheekbones, John pretended not to notice. 


	31. Mycroft/Sally: Phone sex

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff with smutty undertones

“I really hope you’re not forging world peace right now,” Sally purred into the earpiece of her phone as she lay in her bed.

“I’m not doing anything of particular importance, no,” Mycroft replied, voice tinged with amusement that Sally could detect even through the tinny speaker of her phone. 

“Good,” Sally said, a wicked grin blooming on her face, “because I want you to use those government resources of yours to take a look at the feed from the CCTV camera I know you have in my flat. A good,  _long_  look. No legwork required; just sit back and enjoy the show.”


	32. Sherlock's time away from John

Rating: K+

Genre: Angst

Sherlock knew better than to care about what John was doing. It didn’t matter how many times the army doctor had visited his therapist in the last year (21, each time more useless than the last) or whom John was now dating (a teacher by the name of Mary Morstan whom Sherlock didn’t see lasting more than three weeks) or how long it had been since John had last stepped foot into 221B (11 months, 3 days, and 2 hours); all that mattered was that John was safe. After all, caring was not an advantage, Sherlock thought to himself as he clutched a rag to the wound on his arm and watched the figure across the street limp away. 


	33. Sherlock & John: Sherlock speaks French

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff and angst

Full prompt: Sherlock speaks French occasionally. John assumes he’s just insulting people or thinking out loud, but he’s actually saying nice things.

Note: Translations at the bottom of the ficlet.

John likes to think that he’s gotten used to Sherlock’s habit of thinking out loud, even when those thoughts occur in languages that aren’t English. Of course, that doesn’t mean that John  _wants_  to know exactly what Sherlock is talking about every time the detective makes an off-hand comment in French; if John’s lucky, it’s probably some obscure fragment of Sherlock’s mind palace that John wouldn’t understand anyway. If John’s  _not_  lucky? Well, his ego can do without the added abuse of what he’s sure is the French equivalent of “You’re an idiot”, thank you very much. And so when John makes an off-hand comment about the latest case Sherlock is working on and is rebuffed with a shake of the head and a “ _Tu es le seul homme qui continue à me surprendre_ ”, John just rolls his eyes and turns back to his newspaper. Either way, the translation just isn’t worth the effort. After all, John reckons, Sherlock’s too much of a show-off to not say the  _important_  things in English. 

—-

“No, friends protect people,” John says sharply as he storms out of the morgue.

Right before the door slams, John can hear Sherlock mutter “ _Et je te_ _protégerai_ _toujours_.”

“Already started thinking about the next thing,” John scoffs to himself, “he’s forgotten all about me, hasn’t he? Probably didn’t even notice I’d left.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Tu es le seul homme qui continue à me surprendre = You are the only man who continues to amaze me.
> 
> Et je te protégerai toujours = And I will always protect you.


	34. John/Lestrade, drawings and birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a belated birthday present for Yuu (jam-scarves-and-crack).

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff (with a pinch of crack)

John didn’t know when it had started. Okay, that was a lie – John had kept meticulous records of each one, and thus knew _exactly_ when it had started (two weeks and three days after Greg had moved in, to be precise). Rather, John didn’t know _why_ it had started, or even what exactly ‘it’ was. All he knew was that, every day for the past 99 days, there had been a small sketch hidden somewhere around the flat. The subjects varied, as did the location of each little piece of artwork, but two things were constant: one was the number on the bottom left corner of each drawing that counted down from 100 with each day, the other was the neatly-printed “Love, Greg” below each piece of artwork. Greg would merely smile and shrug when asked about the sketches, and so John decided to wait and see if any answers would arise. And on the 100 th day, they did, in the form of an inordinately-proud-of-himself Greg and a sumptuous cake topped with delicious heaps of glistening jam that spelled “Happy Birthday John!” 


	35. Sherlock & John: Sherlock gets shot in his left shoulder

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

They were fighting — again. Sherlock had forgotten to get the milk, and a simple domestic squabble started becoming more and more vicious until, yet again, they were arguing about Sherlock’s three-year-absence. They were shouting louder and louder, movements getting increasingly more animated, until Sherlock made a grand gesture with his arms and then suddenly flinched, hissing in pain as he clutched his left shoulder. John’s instincts took over, fight drained out of him as he rushed to the detective’s side. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said, waving John off. “Moriarty’s last sniper just managed to get a hit on me before I took him down. I’m fine.”

“You’re quite obviously  _not_  fine. Sit, and let me take a look.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he sat down on the couch and started unbuttoning his shirt. John began to unwrap the bandages around Sherlock’s shoulder and swore under his breath when he saw the extent of the damage. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he muttered, shaking his head and reaching for the nearby first-aid kit. “You couldn’t even have the decency to get yourself wounded somewhere original?” John joked weakly as he started tending to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I missed you,” Sherlock said softly, gritting his teeth as John put new bandages on the injury. The detective gestured vaguely to his wound. “Almost felt like I had a part of you with me, with this.”

“You fucking wanker,” John huffed, “You could’ve just called.”

Sherlock fell silent for a bit, before finally replying in a somewhat pleased tone, ”We match now, though.”

John shook his head and tried to hide his smile. “Yes we do, Sherlock.”

“It’s nice.”

John couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at that. “That doesn’t give you any license to get yourself injured again though.”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock said dismissively with a wave of his hand. He paused, then asked, “Do you have any other major injuries that I should be aware of?”

“ _No_ , Sherlock.”


	36. Fem!lock & John: Deerstalker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Rosalia (anarmydoctor).

Rating: K+

Genre: Humour, general

It was a normal day at 221B Baker Street. Two cups of piping-hot tea were sitting on the coffee table, John was curled up in his usual armchair flipping through the newspaper, and Sherlock — well, Sherlock was complaining. 

Today’s rant was the latest in a long string about the various gifts grateful clients had been giving the consulting detective. 

“A crystal magnifying glass?” she huffed as she scrutinized the offending object intently. “What’s wrong with my current one? I prefer my tools to be practical, not encrusted in hideously garish gems, thank you very much.”

Throwing the glass on her chair with a sneer, she whirled around, eyes falling on the hat that had earlier been tossed with disgust into a dark corner of the flat. 

“And then there’s this damnable hat. What is it, anyways? Some sort of death frisbee? It’s horribly ugly. Please tell me that no one  _actually_  wears this sort of thing, John. John!”

The army doctor had been trying to act nonchalant, hiding his chuckles behind his newspaper. However, upon looking up and seeing Sherlock, one hand on her hips and looking at the deerstalker in her other hand as if it were personally responsible for all that was wrong in the world, he couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“This isn’t funny John! Wait, is it funny? Why is it funny?”

“Take a look outside,” John replied with a jerk of his head. 

Sherlock stalked to the window and yanked aside the curtains, looking at the shops across the street. A row of mannequins peered back at her from the large glass panes on the shop fronts, each one dressed in the latest fashions, all completely different — except for one thing. Without fail, every single mannequin had a deerstalker perched on top of its head. 

“According to the newspaper,” John called out from his seat across the room, “the ‘Sherlock Holmes Hat’ is the latest trend. Everyone wants one.”

John’s laughter was cut off when he realized that his flatmate was walking towards the door, a determined (if slightly manic) glint in her eye.

“Sherlock? Why are you getting the gun? No, Sherlock, you can’t- “

Two cups of tea slowly growing cold on the coffee table, Sherlock with a gun in her hand and an experiment in mind (how many bullets a deerstalker could take before it was completely obliterated), John running after her and shouting about societal norms — yes, it was indeed a normal day at 221B.


	37. Molly meets Henry Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 1 of the Party Shernanigans.

Rating: K+

Genre: General, drama

Molly Hooper opened the door to the roof of St Bart’s and sighed exasperatedly when she saw a figure on the rooftop, staring at the bloodstain on the concrete floor. Probably yet another tabloid writer, come to smear Sherlock’s name even more. Well, Molly refused to give them that satisfaction; she’d gotten rather good at chasing away those damned reporters, more out of practice than anything. She opened her mouth, intent on starting her tirade, when the man turned around and asked her, in a shaky voice, “Is this- is this where it happened?”

Molly stilled. Reporters were blustering, nosy people, not quiet, grave ones like the man in front of her. “What are you talking about?” she asked cautiously.

“Sherlock Holmes. Is this- is this where he…?” the man trailed off, wringing his hands in front of him.

Molly nodded silently.

“He helped me, you know,” the man continued, risking a glance at Molly before returning his eyes to the ground. “Well, I’m sure he helped a great many people, but- he saved my life. He _gave_ me my life back.” He took a shuddering breath before continuing, “I don’t believe what they’re saying about him. No one who did… what _he_ did could ever be a fraud.”

Molly looked at the man in front of her, _really_ looked, and she _saw_. She saw a man that was once shattered beyond recognition, a man who had carefully reconstructed himself, piece by piece, a man who was a hair’s breadth from just letting it all go back to hell. Molly looked at the man before her, stronger and infinitely more weary than she had first thought, and she wanted so badly to give him the solace he needed.  Four little words was all it would take, four little words to reassure this man that everything would be okay and that it was worth keeping it all together: Sherlock Holmes is alive.

But Molly had promised a certain consulting detective that those four words would never leave her lips, and so she put on her bravest face and said, “I’m Molly Hooper. I was a… a friend of Sherlock’s. Would you like to go for coffee?”

She hoped that it would be enough. 


	38. Henry Knight meets Moriarty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 1 of the Party Shernanigans.

Rating: K+

Genre: Dark, horror

“You really ought to drink your tea. I made it for you, after all,” Jim lilted as he reclined back in Henry’s plush armchair, looking completely at home in the leather antique. “I like to have a hydrated audience when I tell my stories.”

Henry’s cup rattled as he lifted it from the saucer, an audible reminder of how frightened he was. He had returned home ten minutes ago to find this, this _madman_ lounging around in Henry’s sitting room with a pot of tea and a lazy, yet menacing smile. He’d introduced himself as Jim Moriarty, and had invited Henry to sit down in the chair opposite him. Something about the man’s voice had sent a chill up Henry’s spine, a fear so primal that Henry could do nothing but sit down and listen to the madman.

“But do you know what my favourite type of audiences are?” Jim continued, voice breaking through Henry’s reverie. “The _captive_ ones.” And here, he gave Henry a conspiratorial wink that was anything but friendly. “Oh, and I think you’ll do quite nicely.”

Jim flicked open the jacket of his suit, and Henry caught a glimpse of a gun: _Henry’s_ gun. So Henry sat stiffly in his chair and remained perfectly still, prey caught in the sights of a vicious predator.

Jim grinned, sly and menacing and oh so proud. “Once, there was a boy who was afraid of the big bad wolf,” he crooned. “And yes, a good, _smart_ woodsman came to kill that wolf, but the woodsman forgot to warn the little boy about the _other_ things that go ‘bump’ in the night. And so the little boy slept, thinking that he was safe and sound, when in reality- ” he paused with a little shrug of his shoulders.  “Well, let’s see how this story ends, shall we? Because, you see Henry, I have a problem – a final problem, if you will – and I need you to help me solve it. I need a knight in shining armour Henry!” He gave Henry a once-over, and with an almost-comical grimace of disgust, continued, “Let’s face it, you’re a bit shabby as knights come, but I guess you’ll have to do.”

 


	39. Molly and gluttony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 2 of the Party Shernanigans.

Rating: G

Genre: Angst

It was almost funny, Molly thought to herself bitterly, how often she’d been in this situation before. Crying her eyes out in front of the television, wrapped in blankets and huddled around a container of ice cream. Of course, this time was different; this time, she wasn’t mourning the end of a relationship. If anything, Molly figured, she was mourning the end of, well, _Molly_. The Molly she used to be, the sweet, simple girl whose woes consisted of a burdensome crush on a certain consulting detective and finding people to watch the newest episode of Glee with. The Molly who, above anything else, was _honest_.

But that was the old Molly.

The new Molly—well, the new Molly was very different. The new Molly’s tongue was weighed down with lies, their bitter taste lingering no matter how many spoonfuls of ice cream she ate. The new Molly swallowed her truths and put on a brave face as they squirmed down her throat. The new Molly cried fake tears and cried real tears until her ice cream was salty and bitter and a comfort no longer. But the new Molly continued to eat, because as long as there was ice cream on her spoon she could pretend that the cold pit churning in her stomach was because of the icy dessert cradled to her chest, and nothing more. 


	40. Post-Reichenbach alcoholic John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 2 of the Party Shernanigans.

Rating: T

Genre: Angst

It was odd. Although most of Sunday School had blurred into a hazy smog along with the rest of his memories, John distinctly remembered the day the priest had taught him about gluttony. Father Williams had explained the concept of the deadly sin, how the Devil tempted people to indulge in food and drink past their natural limits, but John hadn’t understood; why would anyone want to drown themselves in excess? As a boy who had always been grounded in moderation and in respecting his body (he already had the soul of a doctor even at _that_ young age), nothing about this “gluttony” sounded at all tempting.

But then the war happened. Or rather, _Sherlock_ happened.

 And for eighteen months, he lived in a super-saturated world, a world where every day was too bright and too fast and too much, and he loved it. And so when that world had been ripped away from him with the sickening _crack_ of a skull against the pavement, when the only colours he saw was the glossy black of a gravestone and the white of a dead corpse’s flesh, John desperately craved for his wonderful, colourful, _alive_ world. And so he added colours to his life, his monotone life that was so very _dull_. The crimson of red wine, the amber of beer, the emerald of absinthe; he wasn’t picky, as long as it did its job. After all, if there was one thing that the last eighteen months had taught him, it was that the body was nothing more than transport. 


	41. Dark!Molly: Painting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 3 of the Party Shernanigans.

Rating: T

Genre: Dark, horror

Everyone had their hobbies. Anna from Neurology liked to knit, Tim from upstairs built model cars. Molly herself preferred to while away the hours painting. She had been enrolled in art lessons as a child, but her old paintbrushes had languished in the attic while Molly had been at university, only to be rediscovered shortly after she had graduated. Mind you, although painting calmed her just as much now as it did back when she was five years old, not everything had stayed the same. Whereas six-year-old Molly had rushed to show her parents her artwork, twenty-six-year-old Molly preferred to keep her paintings close to her chest, private and intimate and for her eyes only. Molly the little girl painted flowers and sunshine and rainbows, but Molly the woman painted _people_. Old people, young people, the poor and the rich, all of them connected by one thread and one thread only: Molly herself. You see, adult Molly had found a new medium to paint with – a medium richer than any acrylic paint and more expressive than any watercolour. The traditional paint that she had used those many years ago? That was child’s play. Nowadays, Molly Hooper painted with blood. 


	42. Dark!Anthea: Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 3 of the Party Shernanigans.

Rating: K+

Genre: Dark, character study

Anthea is just a meaningless designation, an off-the-cuff moniker given with a wave and a smile; her real name is Arachne, a much more fitting (and much more telling) one. For you see, she has always loved spiders. She is drawn to their grace, their efficiency, but most of all, she is drawn to their _creations_. For, you see, spiders do spin such intricate webs, elegant yet strong, their apparent fragility belying their ruthless practicality, and that is something she can aspire to, in her own way.

So she lies in her bed, weaving a web all her own. Her loom may be her Blackberry and her cloth may be information, but the work she creates is as beautiful as any of her namesake’s tapestries. The threads of a million lives are hers to weave and trim as she sees fit, an intricate network as invisible as gossamer but as deadly as steel. Her namesake’s deft hand is mirrored in the neat notes stored in her phone, filled with enough information to topple an empire, ancient or modern. But spiders are patient, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce, and she is no different. She has waited for years, planning her move, and when she does strike, it will be decisive.

It will be effective.

It will be deadly.

After all, every weaver knows when it’s time to cut their thread. 


	43. Dark!Molly's letter to Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 3 of the Party Shernanigans.

Rating: T

Genre: Dark, angst

Dear Jim,

I should have expected this from you. You were always the impulsive one, always getting in trouble with the foster parents or the teachers or the orphanage and then somehow worming your way out of it all. But you didn’t manage to worm your way out of this, did you? Part of me feels like you didn’t even try.

You didn’t try Jim.

You used to taunt me for not trying. Do you remember that, Jim? You called me weak and girly until I turned thirteen and showed you that I too could be merciless, that I too could be deadly. Or did you forget who killed Carl Powers for you? It seems that you have-  _had_  forgotten so much else.

I was the one who got their hands dirty, remember? It was supposed to be  _my_ job. You were just supposed to tease and crow and strut with your showmanship and your charisma and your charm. That’s what we agreed on every night, when we would lie in bed and make our plans, playing with the insignificant lives of the insipid world around us. I miss those nights, Jim. But that’s not the point. The point is, we had a deal. We had a  _pact_. It was us against the world, that damn stupid  _ordinary_  world with its  _ordinary_  people, and now you’re gone. You died with a bullet through your brain and your blood on your hands and  _don’t you understand that I could have done it for you_? We were supposed to do this together, Jim.

You told me something, the night I killed Carl Powers. You told me that the Moriartys would be unstoppable. You told me that the world was ours to play with and cut and make  _bleed_.

I never thought that it would work the other way around too.

Goodbye Jim.

Your sister,  
Molly Moriarty


	44. Dark!Molly: Excuses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 4 of the Party Shernanigans

Rating: T

Genre: Dark

Ordinary people were so stupid. Fools, the lot of them, so easily tricked by a simple illusion or two. Molly would find them all so dull if she didn’t have so much fun pulling the wool over their eyes. It was so easy to make them all love little Molly Hooper. Good, sweet, innocent Molly, with her fumbling advances and oversized jumpers and Glee DVDs. She giggled to herself, thinking about the inane excuses people had so gullibly accepted.

Molly mysteriously vanished in the middle of the night for hours at a time? “I’m sorry, did I worry you? I was working late at Barts!”   
“Oh, of course, you silly little thing! You do love your work so much, don’t you?” She loved her work very much indeed; her _real_ work that is, the one where she _made_ corpses, not examined them.

That long gash on Molly’s arm? “Toby was a bit cranky last night. I think he’s going through catnip withdrawal!”  
“You spoil that cat, you know? You need to take care of yourself too Molly! I’m sure we could set you up with a nice bloke!” Urgh, _boring_. Why _date_ a man when you could peel him open, layer by layer, and find out what makes him tick?

A strange red stain on Molly’s new blouse? “I was baking some red velvet cupcakes last night. Do you want me to bring some over?”   
“Oh no dear, that’s okay, I really must be watching my waistline. You’re such a darling, did you know that?” Oh, Molly was fully aware of how _darling_ she was. After all, surely someone with a blog _that_ pink couldn’t be capable of anything remotely evil, right?

Ordinary people were so stupid. Molly didn’t mind; it made her life just _that_ much easier.

 


	45. Molly Hooper: Suffocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 5 of the Party Shernanigans

Rating: K+

Genre: Angst, character study

Molly couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t been able to for three weeks now, ever since a dead consulting detective had walked out of her morgue, leaving her with a bloody coat in her arms and a bundle of secrets sewed tight behind her lips. Ever since then, every breath she had taken had been shallow and painful, a reminder of the horrible lies she had to spew every single day. Sometimes, when she was trying to take her mind off the pain (and the guilt and the general hell her life had become), she wondered if this was how those Victorian ladies felt in their corsets, laced up tighter and tighter until they bled. But even the tightest corsets could be taken off at the end of the day, whereas Molly? She just had to keep on living. She knew that she had to remain strong, she knew that she had to keep this act going for months, if not years, but that didn’t make it any easier. She was just so… _tired_. Tired of the lies, tired of the tears, tired of the guilt that squeezed her chest like a vise until she thought that she would snap in two. After all, she was Molly Hooper, a girl who was so desperately ordinary and simple and not made for _this_. In a world of intrigue and lies and illusions, she was supposed to remain on the sidelines, in her honest little corner, safe and secure and _whole_. But she had been pushed into the fray, and in the chaos something of hers had been taken, she was sure of it. It was the only explanation for the tightness in her chest, the shallow breaths that set her pulse pounding in her ears day in and day out. And so she soldiered on, waiting for the day when a dead man would return to the living, when her secrets were secrets no longer, when she could finally, _finally_ breathe. 


	46. Dark!Molly & Moriarty: "When all's said and done, the bloodstain remains on the roof"

Rating: T

Genre: Angst, dark

From the moment she was born, a patient little infant followed swiftly by a restless, wailing twin brother, it’s always been Molly-and-Jim. It was Molly-and-Jim who had spent nights under the covers, plotting the death of a certain Carl Powers. It was Molly-and-Jim who had slowly built up the most respected and effective criminal empire in the world. Even when he was halfway across the world and she, with her mother’s maiden name and her lab coat and her pet cat, was working on the corpses and the clients at home, it was always Molly-and-Jim. But now it’s just Molly, and she has to bite her tongue every time to stop herself from instinctively continuing the familiar name. It’s not enough though, of course. She wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping and scrabbling for purchase, clawing at her bedsheets, searching desperately for those two missing syllables. That’s not enough either. After all, when all’s said and done, the bloodstain remains on the roof. 


	47. Henry/Molly: Ordinary

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff, character study

If you look closely, you can see their fault lines, little cracks where extraordinary circumstances and events (a gigantic hound, a romance gone wrong,  _a consulting detective_ ) have carved and changed these two otherwise ordinary people. If you look closely, you can see that their normalcy is a little bit ragged around the edges, that they’ve been witness to too much to ever return to the complete tedium of civilian life. No one ever looks closely though. Well, not until the day Molly Hooper and Henry Knight meet, when those two not-so-ordinary people find in each other a kindred spirit. 


	48. Dark!Molly having tea with Mrs Hudson

Rating: K+

Genre: Drama

Molly glared at the floral-patterned figure bustling around the adjacent kitchen, thinking of all the other things she could be doing (feeding Toby, making sure Seb didn’t get  _too_  trigger-happy, taking a look at the fresh corpse Jim had just delivered) if she wasn’t busy being stuck in that damn room thanks to Mrs Hudson’s  _darling_  little tea invitation. Urgh. Molly hated old people anyways. Senile, useless sacks of flesh that they were, a complete and utter waste of resources. The epitome of dull. But appearances had to be maintained, and so as the old lady walked back into the parlour bearing a silver tray and a china tea set, Molly forced a smile onto her face and started up a banal conversation about the newest shows on the telly.

Just as they started discussing the cancellation of Oprah, however, Mrs Hudson sighed and set her teacup down gravely. “Dearie, I know who you are. Rather, I know  _what_  you are.”

Molly stilled, teacup halfway to her lips. 

Mrs Hudson continued. “You certainly can’t think that you’re the first one to enjoy the rush of the chase, the thrill of having lives wrapped around your pretty little fingers. I’ve played this game before. In fact, I was rather good at it, if I may say so myself. Had the Butcher of Florida catering to my every whim — until I got bored of him, of course.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “I’ve settled down now, though, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t leap back into action given the proper…  _incentive_. I still have connections, you know. You lay a finger on my boys, and there will be nowhere on Earth you can hide.”

Molly looked at the woman in front of her, observed her steely gaze and the thin yet confident line of her lips. Molly mentally noted down every single detail about this woman, so very different from the one that had let her in the flat not fifteen minutes previous, and then Molly nodded silently. 

“Well,” Mrs Hudson said as brightly as ever, “it was nice chatting with you. Please do come over again sometime.” With a cheery smile, she opened the door and ushered the forensic pathologist out. 

As Molly walked away from the building, she couldn’t help but grin. A new game had just started, and it promised to be a fun one. 


	49. Dark!Mrs Hudson, post-Reichenbach

Rating: K+

Genre: Drama, dark

Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway of 221B and watched John haul the last of his bags out of the flat. “Bye Mrs Hudson,” he murmured, voice hollow and lips cold as he gave her a final peck on the cheek. She watched as he got into the cab and drove away; her boys were gone. Her boys were gone, and she wanted them back. With a sigh, she reached for the phone and dialled a number she hadn’t called in years. “Anthea, darling, it’s me. Yes, I know, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Desperate times call for desperate measures, I’m afraid. So, be a good girl and find me Sebastian Moran. No, keep him alive— for now. He and I need to have a little  _talk_ .”


	50. John creates a creature a la Frankenstein

Rating: K+

Genre: Angst, dark

It was nothing more than a business card, stuffed brusquely into John’s second-best jacket during a funeral too bleak to even remember. “If there’s anything you need John, just give me a call,” Dr Stapleton had said softly, handing John the card as she left the church, and that should have been the end of it. 

But it wasn’t.

It begun innocently enough, of course. Fingertips brushing against the card every now and then as John reached for his wallet, slowly fidgeting with the piece of card while he tried to hail a cab, nothing of real importance. But as the months went on and his life remained lonely and depressing and  _so fucking empty_ , the business card seemed to almost burn in his pocket with a constant sort of throbbing. He couldn’t stop thinking about the card or about the offer that had accompanied it. ’Anything he needed,’ Dr Stapleton had said. 

 _Anything_.

So one bleak winter’s night, two years after his consulting detective had tumbled off the roof of St Barts, John fished out the battered card from his pocket and, hands shaking, dialed the number.

Dr Stapleton picked up on the second ring with a brief and clinical “Hello?”

John licked his lips, suddenly nervous about what he was about to do. “Hello Dr Stapleton. It’s John Watson.”

“Ah. Hello John.”

“You told me once that you did a lot of things at Baskerville.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Cloning?”

“Indeed.”

“Human cloning?”

“Like I said before, Doctor Watson, we can do anything you can imagine.”

John paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. He knew that he should just hang up the phone now and stop this call before he did something he would regret, but what other choice did he have? After all, his life was already a living hell; surely nothing could make it worse. And when he could  _feel_  the gaping hole in his life, didn’t it make logical sense to try and fix it? 

“I need you to make me something… Someone.”


	51. Dark!Sherlock/Dark!Molly

Rating: T

Genre: Dark, romance 

Molly hums contentedly as she pulls the trigger and watches the man’s brains decorate the concrete wall behind him. She takes a moment to savour the gory spectacle dripping down the wall before turning her head to face the consulting detective beside her and asking, “What do you plan to do once you find Moran, anyways?”

Sherlock levels Molly with a stern look, his disappointment at the stupidity of her question etched plainly on his face. “Kill him. Slowly and painfully.”

Molly rolls her eyes, leaning against Sherlock as she idly fidgets with the gun in her hand. “Well yes, that part’s rather obvious, don’t you think? I mean, there is a reason I brought my scalpels with me. But after that, then what?”

“Back to London, of course. There’s probably a new influx of heathens just  _screaming_ to be killed, and there’s certainly no one else sophisticated enough to compete with my methods. Even other serial killers are just so predictable after a while, so utterly boring. And I suppose I’ll have to kill you too, at some point, when you get dull.”

Hearing this, Molly can’t help but laugh. “Oh, I’d like to see you try,” she says, a fiery challenge in her eyes.

In a flash, Sherlock has the forensic pathologist pressed to the concrete wall. The gun she was holding just moments before is now in his hands and is pressed steadily to her temple. Grey eyes flashing, he cocks the gun with an audible  _click_  and sneers, “You don’t think I would?”

Molly’s lips curl into a crooked grin as she presses the dagger that has just appeared in her hands more firmly against Sherlock’s throat. “I’d slice your pretty neck open before you had a chance.”

Sherlock chuckles, before swooping his head down to press a hard kiss to Molly’s lips. “I still think you’d look better bleeding out on the floor,” he murmurs as he grazes his teeth along her neck. Hand firmly twisted in Sherlock’s mop of curls, Molly tugs his head up before nipping his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. “Same here,” she says with a smile. 


	52. Winglock: Deductions

Rating: K+

Genre: Angst

They said that wings were a mirror into a person’s heart. It was an oversimplified generalization, of course, made by the same people who waxed poetic about eyes being the windows to the soul and other sentimental drivel, but even the most maudlin of sayings had a grain of truth behind them. For while it was true that almost everyone learned to consciously control their wings around the same time that they started to learn how to lie, the amount of unconscious tilting, curling, and ruffling of the feathers visible to the shrewd eye of a consulting detective was enough to provide solid evidence for many a conviction. However, you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to notice how John Watson’s feathers, once a lustrous and warm brown, were now dull and pallid. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to observe that the wings that used to fit compactly against John’s body now seemed to only emphasize the sad arch of his spine, feathers dragging against the ground as he limped along. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see that John Watson’s heart was completely and utterly broken — not that it mattered anyway, of course. After all, Sherlock Holmes was dead.


	53. Sherlock: Dragonfly

Rating: K+

Genre: Character study, angst

When Sherlock called Moriarty the spider at the centre of a criminal web all those weeks ago, the phrase stuck in John’s head, much like the burrs that used to cling to his trousers when he was a little boy.  _If Moriarty is a spider_ , John would often find himself wondering,  _then what does that make Sherlock?_ Butterflies were too delicate, too populist; bees were single-minded in a way that Sherlock would have found dull. Weeks went by and the question remained without an answer, until that one night: The Last Night. The night where John found himself running behind Sherlock, metal handcuffs biting into his wrist, stunned into silence as Sherlock whirled and dashed in a frenzy of activity, elegant as ever, and suddenly John remembered the glimmer of iridescent blue dragonflies that he had seen as a child, and he  _knew_. Strong, swift, and yet just a little bit fragile, with eyes that saw more than any other; if Jim Moriarty was a spider, then Sherlock Holmes was, without a doubt, a dragonfly. 

John had a lot of time to ponder his new revelation after The Fall, and he spent quite a few hours on his laptop reading article after article about the small insect. He learned that Europeans thought dragonflies to be sinister bearers of evil, and he couldn’t help but think about how his own ‘dragonfly’ had been similarly slandered. He read stories from Japan about dragonflies bringing strength, courage, and happiness, and yet it wasn’t enough. After all, no article could give John the answer he needed; if dragonflies were known for being one of the fastest insects in the animal world, then why did his fall?

 


	54. Dark!Molly/Moriarty: Corpse

Rating: T

Genre: Angst, dark

Molly took a long look at the body bag on the slab, fingers trembling slightly as she read the name tag attached to it. “John Doe,” it said, and she couldn’t help but laugh, short and sharp and all too bitter. “He would have hated it,” she thought to herself. “He was always so extravagant, so elaborate; he would never have been satisfied with a dull name like ‘John Doe.’” In a fit of sudden fury, Molly yanked at the zipper of the bag, ripping it open and revealing the corpse inside. Upon seeing the glassy eyes stare straight into her own, she jumped, biting her lip in the process. She swallowed the coppery tang of her blood, relishing the pain that was keeping her focused and present as she methodically reached for her scalpel. “You’re just a piece of meat now, Jim,” she hissed at the corpse, “nothing more than a fucking sack of meat on a slab. You don’t even have a real name anymore.” She began to circle the body, her voice rising in a mockery of a familiar Irish lilt. “You’re dull. You’re ordinary. You’re empty.” She stabbed her scalpel down into the body, rage overtaking accuracy, before visibly deflating. Her hands clutched the edge of the metal table and, head bowed, she whispered in a lost voice,  “What does that make me?”





	55. Drunk!Sherlock during Reichenbach

Rating: T

Genre: Angst

Warning: mentions of suicidal thoughts

 

Logically, this was a horrible idea; Sherlock knew that. But logic had led him to fake his death and abandon everyone he’d known and cared for, so frankly, Sherlock thought to himself as he asked the bartender in impeccable German for another shot, logic could go fuck itself. “John would be proud of me,” the detective mused to himself as he downed the shot and held back a wince, “I’ve picked up on his penchant for vulgarity whilst intoxicated.” Not that it mattered, of course. After all, he was just going to deal with some petty henchmen: child’s play, even if all his senses weren’t at 100%. Maybe if he was lucky, Sherlock thought bitterly to himself as he fingered the gun tucked into his belt, they’d be deadlier than he expected. 


	56. Sherlock's history with Mrs Hudson

Rating: T

Genre: Angst, slight hurt/comfort

Warning: Mentions of physical abuse and abusive relationships

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the woman walked into the room, the consulting detective already ready to reject the case in front of him. He had no interest in going to Florida at the moment (too many delicate experiments that needed tending to) and he certainly wasn’t going to bother with the effort for such a mundane case (this woman was willing to lead him right to her husband.  _Dull_ . Wasn’t that what local authorities were for?). He glared at the woman, intent on telling her as much, when he suddenly stilled. The physical markings (bruises on the wrists and neck, a graze along the left cheekbone, dried blood under the fingernails) were nothing special (he’d figured domestic abuse was involved five minutes after he’d read the email asking for his help), but there was something else. There was a grace to her bearing; she held her head with dignity, her brown eyes calmly daring the detective to remark on what he saw. It reminded Sherlock of a woman many years ago, with long dark hair and high cheekbones and fair skin always marred by the ugly yellows and blues of bruises. A woman with defiant grey eyes and a calm smile and a fierce devotion to her role as matriarch of the Holmes family. With a sharp nod, he forced himself back to the present and said, ”Mrs Hudson, is it? I’ll take the case.”


	57. Molly crushes on Anderson

Rating: K+

Genre: Angst

It was official, Molly thought to herself: there was something wrong with her - psychologically, that was. After all, there was no other explanation for how absolutely  _pathetic_  her crushes were. After all, she was a smart, nice, somewhat-attractive woman, and she could probably find a nice man at a club or something, but no. Instead, she had to be attracted to that new guy working for Scotland Yard in forensics. She didn’t even know his first name, for God’s sakes! Of course, she knew the only two important facts about him. Fact 1: He was married. Fact 2: He was actually nice to her - not in a fawning, obviously-looking-for-something way, though (Molly had seen far too much of that from the previous forensics officers). It was more in the way he would smile and nod whenever he saw her in the morgue, or ask her if she wanted a coffee as he went to get his own. He treated her like a colleague and, sad as it was, those small bits of kindness had given Molly a really,  _really_ bad crush on the bloke. In her defense, Molly wasn’t used to someone treating her as an actual co-worker instead of a machine whose only purpose was to cart out corpses and— that wasn’t helping her case, was it? Yes, it was official; Molly Hooper was  _pathetic_ . 


	58. Moriarty/Moran: Enough

Rating: T

Genre: Angst

It should have been enough.

The barbed insults, the maniacal laughter, the glint of genius in those dark eyes; Sebastian had been privileged enough to bear witness to all of it. He should have been content with what he had. And yet, Sebastian had gotten greedy. He had wanted more and more, from the bite of teeth and lips and blood to the tangle of bruised limbs and aching muscles. But now, instead of having everything, he was left with nothing. Nothing but old wounds and a listless life and the bitter knowledge that it all should have been enough — but yet it wasn’t.


	59. Dark!Molly/Moriarty: Hands

Rating: K+

Genre: Dark, fluff, character study

Jim’s hands are compact and strong, carefully-manicured nails belying the power beneath. They are tools for threatening, cajoling, storytelling. His hands craft his web, piece by piece, strand by strand. His hands are the hands of a creator and a destroyer both. 

Molly’s hands are slender, with long fingers and nails bitten down to the quick. They are deft and agile, as at home in the warm, throbbing flesh of a writhing victim as in the cold, hard corpse of one long gone. Her hands paint with blood and sculpt with scalpels. Her hands are the hands of a scientist and an artist both.

Together, their hands scratch, claw, rip. They cause pain and hurt and sorrow because that’s just who they are. But sometimes — not often, mind you, but  _sometimes_  — their hands will just caress or brush or clasp. Nothing close to love, oh no, but sometimes — sometimes, their hands will find themselves just holding each other. The creator and the scientist, the destroyer and the artist, just— holding.


	60. Moriarty/Moran/Dark!Molly: Loss

Rating: T

Genre: Angst, dark

Warning: verbally and physically abusive relationship, references to character death

Sebastian eyed Molly warily from where he was perched on the arm of a chair. and he didn’t need to be a genius to feel the tension radiating from her petite form. She was leaning against the wall, checking what was presumably her email on her phone, when suddenly her eyes snapped up and met his. “What’s the matter, Seb?” she asked in a saccharine-sweet voice, head tilting slightly in an overly innocent fashion. “Go on, speak your mind. No? I’ll go first then.” She languidly began to walk toward him, bare feet making hardly a whisper against the carpet. “You know what kills me?” she whispered as she approached. “What  _kills_  me?” She paused in front of him. Silence hung heavy in the air for a second, then suddenly-  _slap_. ”You don’t fight,” she spat at him, eyes blazing, hand still in the air. “You never do. You’re a spineless, pathetic coward who doesn’t have the brains to do anything but follow orders.”

Before he could think better of it, Sebastian had Molly pinned up against the wall, one arm pressed firmly against her windpipe. “I was a soldier,” he growled. “I survived Afghanistan, and don’t you ever forget it. And where have your brains gotten you? All your plotting and planning didn’t stop Jim’s death wish-” Sebastian stilled, and although he could still feel his pulse beating loud and strong in his ears, and although he could still feel Molly’s gasping breaths against his arm, the only thing that mattered was the rich cotton of a Westwood suit that should have been pressed against his skin by now. And so he crushed his lips against Molly’s, and through the teeth and the tongue and the grasping, searching fingers, they tried to reclaim what was lost. 


	61. Sherlock/John: Freudian Slip

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff, humour

John Watson would like to preface this story by saying that, in his defense, it had been a long day at the hospital, filled with stacks of paperwork, a shortage of doctors and a petulant three-year-old patient that bore an eerie resemblance to a certain consulting detective. So, really, as things go, it was quite commendable that he had managed to take the tube back to Baker Street, unlock the door, and trudge up the stairs without falling flat on his face. Really, please give him some credit for that. After all, that series of small successes is  _almost_  enough to counter the fact that, when John entered the flat and saw Sherlock lying on the couch, he said to his flatmate offhandedly, ”Did the Yard have any cases, love?”

Shit.

John was instantly aware of two very vital facts:

Fact One: It wasn’t as if he’d slurred or mumbled his words. No, unfortunately John Watson had the clean crisp diction of a veteran of the British Armed Forces, which meant that there was absolutely no opportunity to take back those words that were presently hanging in the air between him and a certain dark-haired detective.

Fact Two: The aforementioned dark-haired detective was currently giving John a sly smile and a smug look and, frankly, John didn’t want to take back those words anyways.

While John was ruminating on these two extremely important facts, Sherlock was already in action (and wasn’t that always the case?), moving up off the couch in one fluid motion to loom over John, so close that John could feel warm breath on his face. 

“Why, yes, yes they did,” Sherlock chuckled in a deep baritone, eyes locked on John’s own, “ _love_.”

John Watson may have prefaced this story with an excuse, but he would like to end it with an addendum of sorts: regardless of how tired he may have been when he arrived back at 221B that fateful day, he doesn’t regret that Freudian slip one bit. 


	62. Dark!Molly: Vigilante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a gorgeous sketch by artbylexie which can be found here: http://artbylexie.tumblr.com/post/38044978094/it-wasnt-a-terribly-good-plan-but-she-had-to

Rating: K+

Genre: Dark

Oh, it was justified. Whether or not it would hold up in a court of law was an entirely different matter, but Molly didn’t intend to have to defend herself to the legal system any time soon. The fact of the matter was, that so-called consulting criminal perched neatly in the crosshairs of her rifle sight, that twisted, murderous psychopath casually sitting on the rooftop across the street from her, he had killed a lot of people — and one of those people had been her father. So, really, everything she was doing was completely morally justified. Of course, if the chill that ran up her spine as she set up her rifle couldn’t just be attributed to the draft blowing through the abandoned building? Well, she didn’t need to think too deeply about that just yet. And if a small little smile danced across her lips as she stroked the trigger? Well, no one could see her face right now anyways, so what did it matter? And if, when the consulting criminal’s brains were splattered all over the concrete, she took a brief moment to revel in the carnage? Well, it was a job well done, after all. At the end of the day, she was only doing this because it was the right thing to do. Nothing more — right?


	63. Molly/Moriarty: First Kiss

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Romance/character study

The kiss is nothing like she expects. It shudders into life, stumbling with squashed noses and lips just slightly out of place, and for one spine-tingling, icy-cold moment, she can see how easy it would be to stop. How a small movement of her head could give her just enough space to smile and laugh it off as a funny anecdote to be recounted in the sober light of morning. But instead, she tilts her head just a little bit until-  _there_. Lips align and suddenly there’s heat everywhere, radiating from the hands on her hips and the lips at hers and the breath ghosting against her cheek.

It should be paralyzing, this heat. There’s so much and he’s so much and she’s just poor sweet Molly Hooper, all elbows and awkward laughs. She’s supposed to be an invisible witness to the boy with the smirks and the suits and the dangerous air. And yet, here she is, thrust into the spotlight with wine warm in her veins and that beautiful, menacing, ne’er-do-well between her lips. And suddenly, this heat is not paralyzing: it’s catalyzing.

One of her hands moves up to run through his hair and she tugs him closer, biting gently at the lip caught between hers. He pulls back and smiles, all teeth and pride and predator, and she knows that she should be frightened. That this, all of this, is strange and unfamiliar and so wrong for the normal Molly Hooper. But she is not the normal Molly Hooper, and perhaps she never will be again. But the insistent lips that have moved to her neck give her no time to think about that salient fact, and soon she’s nuzzling the pale white skin above his collar and kissing and sucking and biting. She will mark him, she decides in the midst of her sensory haze, she will mark him because for this one strange, unforeseen night, he has chosen her and she has chosen him. 

They part ways at her flat, and he leaves her with an over-the-top bow and a lilting “Good night, Miss Hooper. Until we meet again.” She closes her door without comment, her brain already beginning to chastise her for sloppy choices and bad decisions. She licks her lips with a sigh, and starts as her upper lip twinges with pain. Turning towards the window, she opens it a crack, fingers coming up to tenderly brush against her sore lip as she watches Jim leave. He passes a streetlamp, and the yellow light reveals a dark bruise already beginning to form on his neck. Molly turns away from the window with a small smile, a single word echoing in her head:  _Again_. 


	64. Mycroft/Sally: First Kiss

Rating: PG

Genre: Fluff, romance

He’s sitting there with a smug little smirk on his face, everpresent umbrella hanging casually off the arm of  _her_  chair (and it is hers, just like this is her office, no matter which minor government official swans into it). “Sergeant Donovan," he says with a slight nod in her direction, “I’ve come to ask you for a personal favour. I’m sure you’ll oblige."

He slides a small envelope towards her, and whatever amusement she had felt at seeing him evaporates, and she can feel the blood rushing to her face as she hisses angrily, “Listen, you cocky bastard, just because you’ve helped us on a couple of cases doesn’t mean we owe you anything, and it certainly does not mean that you can bribe me into doing god knows what kind of dirty work just so that-"

He cuts her off with a disdainful roll of his eyes and an impatient  _rap_  of his umbrella on the floor. “Nothing of the sort, Ms Donovan; it’s merely a dinner invitation."

She flushes, this time from embarrassment instead of anger, and as he saunters toward the door, she calls to him: “You’re so sure I’ll accept, huh?"

He stops just short of the door, turns around, and merely arches an eyebrow. It’s the last straw.

She storms toward him and, grabbing him by the lapels of what is sure to be a hundreds-of-pounds suit, kisses him.

"You’re still a cocky bastard," she whispers with a grin before turning strutting out of the office.


	65. Molly/Sherlock: Catalyst

Rating: PG

Genre: Romance

A catalyst, by definition, speeds up a reaction without being consumed. Molly wonders if, in the whirling fireball of a reaction that is Sherlock Holmes, such a thing even exists. Is there really a dry place to stand, a high enough perch where she can look down and observe this brilliant firecracker of a man and help fan his flames without getting burnt herself? Every time he looks at her, looks _through_  her, her face burns and her palms get sweaty and she finds it harder and harder to resist his gravitational pull. 

But the first time he looks at her and really sees her. Oh, the first time he sees and says “I need you" and steps toward her as if succumbing to a magnetic pull she didn’t even know she had — when he places a trembling finger under her chin and leans forward to gingerly kiss her, hesitant yet wanting, she finally understands. Like her, he believed himself to be a catalyst, to be above the messy chaos of emotions and reactions that he had caused. They’re both wrong though, and the fight to prove otherwise has grown too tiring. So, as their lips touch and their breaths mingle, they finally give in and let themselves be consumed. 


	66. Mycroft/Sally: First Fight

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Angst

"So, will I see you Friday night?" Sally asked with a playful grin; through a mix of actual planned dinners and mysterious black cars showing up at her doorstep, Friday nights had unofficially become her date nights with Mycroft Holmes.

"Not this Friday, no," Mycroft replied impassively.

"Really?" His response took Sally by surprise, but she shrugged it off and joked, “What are you up to then? Busy causing a civil war halfway around the world?" 

Mycroft paused, twirling his umbrella in a movement that would be considered nervous fidgeting if it were anyone else. “No, actually, I’ll be at the Spanish Ambassador’s—  _soiree_." A moue of distaste accompanied the last word.

"A soiree? Don’t those usually require dates?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Yes, but you will not be accompanying me this time, Sally. I will be bringing Anthea; she has valuable experience dealing with the other ambassadors."

"Oh," Sally said, voice cold. “I see how it is. I’m your girlfriend when it’s convenient, yeah? But God forbid that your  _friends_  see you with a poor, crude officer from Scotland fucking Yard." She stormed towards the door, whirling around at the entrance. “I am not your pet or your toy," she spat with venom, “not something you can put in a cage when guests come over. I’m a fucking human being, Mycroft Holmes. And sometimes, I wonder if you are."


	67. Dark!Molly: Molly is Moriarty's boss

Rating: T

Genre: Dark

Warnings: minor gore, character death

Molly looked at the pool of blood that was mere inches away from her black flats, her mouth in a moue of distaste. It wasn’t she was disgusted by the gore or anything; the bits of brain floating around in the blood were actually rather fascinating and, after all, she did have a clean-up crew right behind her that was going to dispose of all of this mess before any of the media got their grubby little hands on this scene. Nonetheless, she thought to herself with a sigh as she surveyed the London skyline from the roof at St Barts, losing Jim was an inconvenience. Well, to be fair, she had known he was going to kill himself; in fact, it had been her idea all along, and it hadn’t taken more than a few careful words to get the notion planted in his crazy little head. Still, he was entertaining, charming, and useful — for a time. The fact of the matter was, he had outlived his use, and so he had to die. Molly turned away from the skyline with a small shrug and walked towards the staircase that led back inside. “Get to work boys,” she called over her shoulder to her crew, “I have a consulting detective to ‘help.’”


End file.
